


Time Heals All Wounds

by playout



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, HP: EWE, Kid Fic, M/M, Minor Character Death, More fluff than angst (let's be honest), POV Alternating, Slash, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:26:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3801871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playout/pseuds/playout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a Healer with a savior complex. Draco is a newly-widowed single father. And Scorpius is the child who will bring them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I need another blood-replenishing potion!" Harry bellowed. Sweat dripped off his brow and into his eyes and every muscle in his body shook with strain as he struggled to maintain the stasis field he'd held up for more than an hour. A mediwitch hurried by with the potion and poured it down the patient's throat, using a spell to force the unresponsive muscles to swallow.

Harry cast yet another _rennervate_  to persuade the patient's lifeless heart to beat. It thumped once, weakly--a reflexive response to the magic--then was still.

The readouts of the various diagnostic spells were all the same--flat lines and silence, where a cacophony of beeps and blips would indicate vital heart rate, blood pressure, respiration, brain function. Harry raised his wand in a trembling hand to cast again but Healer Furikawa stopped him with gentle pressure on his arm.

"Healer Potter, she's gone," she said with finality. "You have to stop trying to bring her back."

The stasis field shimmered and collapsed. Harry very nearly did, too. His knees buckled and he swayed on his feet, vision greying and blood rushing in his ears. The petite Healer steadied him, expression concerned.

Harry used her worry as an anchor. He straightened his shoulders and bore his weight down into the tiles, focusing on breathing evenly. Satisfied he wasn't about to keel over, Healer Furikawa turned to the mediwitch and declared, "Time of death, 06:38," in a dry, clipped tone.

Harry couldn't help it--he wept. It was like a dam had burst. Uncontrollable sobs wracked his frame as fat, bitter tears joined the rivulets of sweat streaming down his face. He was too exhausted to try to hold it back. Too exhausted to care. 

Someone--he wasn't sure who--steered him out of the room and into an empty one nearby so he could collect himself in private. Harry fell bonelessly into a chair and cried until he had no tears left to shed. He never took the death of a patient well, but this one was worse than usual. 

Astoria Malfoy had been transferred to his floor after what should have been an ordinary and uncomplicated child birth went horribly awry. Her labour had stopped progressing and the baby was in distress so they'd opted for a magical Caesarian section. An apprentice Healer accidentally nicked an artery during the procedure--dangerous, but not life-threatening. At least it shouldn't be when occurring in the largest and most well-equipped hospital in wizarding Britain. But something went wrong. Terribly so. It was still unclear what, exactly. All Harry knew was that by the time she got to Spell Damage, Astoria had lost so much blood it was almost impossible to find a pulse. Her overstrained heart gave up less than ten minutes later.

Harry had tried for another seventy to get it pumping again.

But in spite of his effort, there was now a baby without a mother and a man who had become a widower at the tender age of 26. And Harry couldn't help but feel responsible. Maybe if he'd been quicker with the potions or more competent with the spells...

He took a deep, shuddering breath and scrubbed a hand over his face.

Standing on unsteady legs, he returned to the room Astoria had died in. A sheet had been pulled over her body and Healer Furikawa was making notations on the chart.

"I'll tell her husband," he said. Though his voice was rough, it didn't waver, for which he was grateful.

Healer Furikawa raised an eyebrow at him, appraising. No one ever wanted that particular responsibility; it was one of the worst parts of the job. But Harry felt he owed Malfoy at least that much so he held the senior Healer's penetrating gaze.

"Very well," she acquiesced. "Change your robes first."

Harry looked down to find a grisly sight that was not uncommon in his ward (especially with the number of splinching cases they received)--his lime green robes were soaked with blood. He swallowed down the bile that rose in the back of his throat and nodded to his supervisor. 

After a quick shower and change, he took the lift down to Obstetrics, mentally rehearsing his script on the way. The Welcome Witch on the floor directed him to Malfoy's room. The weight of dread made Harry's steps heavy and slow, but he eventually found himself before the closed door of room 232. Steeling his nerves, he knocked quietly (in case the baby was asleep).

"Enter," came a voice from within. Harry would know that voice anywhere, despite the fact he hadn't heard it in years.

With a final prayer for composure and grace, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Malfoy was sat with a tiny bundle in his arms. He looked like shit.

His haggard face took on a pinched quality when he registered the identity of the Healer at his door. 

The baby appeared to sleeping quietly.

Harry hovered near the entryway, uneasy. "Are you alone?" he asked, surprised that no one was there with Malfoy.

"Mother is in the cafeteria," he answered brusquely. "She will return shortly."

"Maybe I should come back..." Harry hedged. Malfoy shouldn't have to hear this news alone.

"No. You will give me the update on Astoria now." His tone brooked no argument.

"Mr. Malfoy, I'm not sure--"

"Cut the crap," he growled. "This is not the time for false pleasantries. How. Is. My. Wife."

Sighing in resignation, Harry crossed the small room and held out his arms for the baby. Malfoy clutched the bundle tighter to his chest, expression wary.

"I'm going to put your child in the bassinet so your hands will be free," Harry explained as soothingly as he could.

Malfoy's nostrils flared and a muscle jumped in his jaw.

He was putting pieces together, then.

Reluctantly, he passed the baby to Harry, who took it with practiced ease. Noting the blue bracelet with the baby's family name, date, and time of birth on it, Harry said, "He's beautiful. Congratulations."

He was, too. His face was angelic and his features soft, and his head was perfectly round--not blotchy, red, and smushed like babies that had been squeezed through a birth canal. He had a shock of white-blond hair like his father's. Harry wondered if it would darken to his mother's honey shade as he got older. An unexpected wave of grief struck him with violent force, making him shudder where he stood.

"Does he have a name yet?" he asked to distract himself, fussing with the blankets.

"Scorpius," Malfoy replied, voice thick.

Harry rolled the name over in his mind. It wasn't any more ridiculous than Draco, he supposed. There must be a rule about Malfoy heirs being named for heavenly bodies. Or maybe it was Blacks, he thought, remembering Andromeda and Bellatrix. Did that mean Narcissa was a star, too? Harry wasn't sure. Regardless, he hoped the boy would have a good, solid nickname someday so he wasn't saddled with that three-syllable burden forever.

"There you are, Scorpius," he murmured, settling the baby in his bassinet and stroking his downy tuft of hair. "Sleep well, sweet thing."

He cast a muffling charm over the bassinet and turned to find Malfoy studying him intently.

"She's dead, isn't she?" he demanded without preamble.

Harry's steps faltered. He struggled for words.

Malfoy swallowed visibly and nodded his head once. "I knew it. I could feel it when she--" his voice broke. Harry's heart clenched in sympathy.

Cracks started forming at the edges of Malfoy's polished veneer and he swiped angrily at his watering eyes.

"I did everything I could. I swear it," Harry spoke in earnest.

"Yes, I'm sure you did," Malfoy replied disparagingly. "St. Potter doesn't do things by halves."

Harry let the dig slide. A man was entitled to his sorrow.

Malfoy cleared his throat, forcing his mask firmly into place. "You may go," he dismissed haughtily. "I will inform my mother when she returns."

"The witches and wizards in the nursery will take good care of Scorpius if you need a break," Harry offered, lingering. "And I can come check on you when my shift is over at three."

Malfoy sneered contemptuously. "What ever made you think I might want _you_ to visit?" 

Harry's hackles rose, but he forced a calming breath through his nose. Malfoy was hurt. He was angry. He was lashing out at a convenient target. Harry could take it.

"It was just a thought," he replied evenly.

Malfoy turned his head away, effectively ending the conversation.

Harry sighed and walked to the doorway, but he paused before stepping through.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy," he said without turning around. "Truly."

There was no response.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I upped Draco's age in the previous chapter by three years to reflect Scorpius's canonical birth year (2006).
> 
> You folks who have left kudos (and even bookmarked!) after just one chapter are both sweet and highly optimistic! I hope the rest of the story lives up to your early praise :)

Potter had been at Astoria's funeral.

Much of the day was a blur Draco had stumbled through in a haze of grief and exhaustion, but he was sure Potter had been there. It would have been hard to miss, what with all the flashbulbs going off at The Savior's arrival.

How _gracious_ of him to make an appearance at the funeral of a Death Eater's wife.

Draco scowled.

 _What was he playing at?_ Was he afraid it would hurt his sterling reputation if word got out he'd let a patient die? Not bloody likely. He was St. Mungo's Golden Boy.

Donations to the hospital had practically poured in faster than the goblins could count them once the public learned of Potter's acceptance into its training program. He, like many students whose learning had been disrupted by the War, had returned to Hogwarts for an unprecedented eighth year to study for his N.E.W.T.s. Draco had not been among them.

But who knew Potter was capable of that many high marks? Draco was shocked when he'd read the news in big, bold type on the front page of the Prophet (accompanied by a photo of Potter looking particularly studious in Hogwarts' library). He'd suspected St. Mungo's had relaxed their academic requirements to admit him and he hadn't been the only one. Public skepticism--fomented by that shrew, Skeeter--had been great enough that Potter was eventually persuaded to allow the hospital to publish his results.

That had been enough to quiet most dissenting voices, Draco's among them, though Skeeter had continued to speculate about ways he might have managed to cheat the notoriously uncheatable exams. Draco was content to assume Granger's tireless and unrelenting tutelage was responsible for the feat, along with Potter's perpetual good luck.

_Where had that luck been when Astoria had needed it?_

Debilitating sorrow welled up in him like a great black storm cloud that blotted out all memory of sunlight, but he wasn't given the luxury of surrendering to it. Scorpius chose that moment to awaken from his nap and cry shrilly for attention.

"It's ok, love," he sighed wearily, picking up his son and holding him to his chest. "Your Papa is here. I've got you."

...

Two days after his wife had been buried (and nine days after Scorpius was born), Draco received an unexpected owl. From Potter of all people.

 _What does the Chosen Git want now?_ he thought darkly, squinting at the indecipherable scrawl on the parchment.

 _Malfoy,_ it read,

_How are you holding up? The first few weeks are the hardest, as you and Scorpius learn to communicate with one another and settle into a routine. I hope your mum or the house-elves, at least, are helping. It is critical that you get quality sleep so you can function at your best and that's hard to come by with a newborn waking up all night long._

_When Rosie was a wee thing, I spent the night at Ron and Hermione's twice a week to give them a break and let them get a few hours of uninterrupted rest. It's easier for me to be up at odd hours since I work the overnight shift._

_If you want, I could come by the Manor to mind Scorpius some time so you can sleep or get caught up on errands or what have you. I usually only work Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so I have a lot of free time._

_Just let me know._

_What's Scorpius's temperament like so far? I hope he's going easy on you._

_That's all, I guess._

_Harry (Potter)_

Draco had to read the letter three times and cast every detection spell he knew on it to finally decide that it wasn't a hoax and was, in fact, from Potter, impossible as that was to believe.

Mystified and irritated (for reasons that weren't entirely clear), he sat at his desk to compose a reply.

_Potter,_

_Whether this is some kind of misguided attempt at restitution or you are reaching out to me in virtue of your Gryffindorish sense of nobility, you can stop. I neither want nor need your pity._

_D.M._

He rolled up the parchment and sent it off with the little tawny owl that had carried Potter's letter to him. It looked to be a Post Owl, which Draco thought odd. Surely Potter could afford an owl of his own with his Healer's salary (never mind the fabled Potter fortune).

Draco put his curiosity--along with all thoughts of Potter--out of his head and padded to the nursery where Mother was reading family genealogies to Scorpius.

She took one look at him and saw straight through his façade. "What is troubling you, dear?" she asked with a frown. 

"Just an irksome letter," he answered vaguely. Mother didn't need to know about this Potter business. She'd probably invite the presumptuous lout to dinner.

Mother narrowed her eyes and Draco averted his, uninterested in having legilimency used on him, no matter how well-intentioned.

"I trust you have settled the matter to your satisfaction?" she queried gently (a thinly-veiled attempt to wheedle more information out of him).

Scorpius saved him the trouble of answering by wailing like the world was coming to an end--his preferred method of communication. Draco began running through the check-list of possible sources of anguish.

"Nappy?"

"I just changed him."

"Bottle?"

"Ten minutes ago."

"Gas?"

"I don't think so."

"Temperature?"

(and so on.)

...

Weary down to his very bones, Draco collapsed into bed. Scorpius was finally, _finally_ asleep and would hopefully remain that way for a few hours, at least.

He was just about to put out the lights when he heard an insistent tapping at his window. Incredibly, it was the tawny owl from earlier.

"Have you experienced so little rejection in your life that you fail to recognize it, Potter?" he sardonically asked the air, waving his wand to admit the bird, which settled lightly beside him.

Directing his next question to the bright-eyed creature he said, "Or is it, perhaps, his life's mission to torment me?"

The owl hooted quizzically, twisting its head to peer sideways at Draco.

"Never mind."

Draco retrieved the scroll from the owl's leg, which it held out complacently for him. If nothing else, the bird was well-trained. Draco hoped it didn't have mites.

He turned his attention to the parchment, which Potter had not bothered to address or sign. So much for his short-lived politesse.   

 _It isn't pity._ The missive began.Draco scoffed.

 _You are in a position where you could use some help and I would like to offer it. That has nothing to do with how I might think of you as a person. But if you must know, I think you are handling this awful situation commendably. I saw you at the funeral with Scorpius. You were attentive and patient, even through your grief._ ~~_I couldn't help but notice that your friends seemed rather distant._ ~~ _You are trying to be a good dad. That's a hard job. I want to help if I can._

_If you don't want me to stay over, that's fine. Can I at least come by to drop a couple of things off for you and Scorpius?_

Maybe it was Draco's exhaustion.  Perhaps it was shock. He could even admit to feeling a bit of curiosity. Whatever the reason, he summoned a quill to write, "You may come for a brief visit any day this week. We will be home. You know the address."

With a strange tremulous sensation, Draco re-affixed the parchment to the owl and sent it away with a treat.

In spite of his fatigue, sleep was a long time coming.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry stood before the imposing doors of Malfoy Manor. He held a wicker basket in each arm and was careful not to jostle the contents he'd worked hard to arrange (somewhat) artfully.

He was surprised when Malfoy himself answered, Scorpius cradled against his side like a rugby ball.

It must have shown on his face.

"Expecting someone else?" Malfoy drawled.

"Yes, actually," Harry admitted. "A house-elf."

"I was near the door when you knocked," was Malfoy's indifferent reply. "I _am_ capable of performing basic functions in my home."

"I never doubted that. I just thought you might...choose not to."

Malfoy sniffed, lip curled slightly in distaste.

Harry reminded himself for the thousandth time that he was doing this for Scorpius, and that Malfoy--enormous prat though he may be--deserved his sympathy.

"Can I come in?" he lifted the baskets like a peace offering. Malfoy eyed them skeptically but stepped aside to make room for him to do so.

"This way," he instructed, leading Harry through the expansive foyer and to a brightly lit sunroom.

The room was pleasant and cheerful, with pale yellow wall paper, plush chairs in an assortment of styles, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the lower lawn. It was quite different from what Harry had expected (dark woods, deep shadows, heavy furniture that was made for looking, not sitting, scowling portraits of disapproving Malfoy ancestors, cursed heirlooms, possibly a dark lord or two). 

"This is nice," he commented genuinely.

"I'm delighted you think so," Malfoy intoned, expression bland.

Harry bit his tongue and silently counted to ten. When he was reasonably sure he was no longer on the verge of hexing the spiteful blighter, he handed Malfoy a basket.

"That one is for Scorpius."

Malfoy shifted the baby in his arms and stooped to look through the contents. He picked up the Snitch-shaped rattle and tugged experimentally on one of its rubber wings.

"Those are for chewing," Harry explained. "They're pretty durable. Teddy had one just like it and it stood up to his vigorous gnawing, even after his teeth came in."

Malfoy glanced at Scorpius who seemed content to sit and drool for now and set the rattle aside. He then lifted the dummies from the basket by the corner of their (obviously muggle) plastic-and-cardboard package as if he feared contamination.

"Hermione's parents are dentists. That's the brand they recommend. It's supposed to be a better shape for developing palates."

Malfoy's expression remained dubious. He set the dummies next to the rattle and removed the last gift.

Harry worried his bottom lip as Malfoy untied the ribbon and unrolled the light blue blanket (quite adeptly with only one useable arm).

"I hate to sound ungrateful, Potter," he said after a moment, "but you should demand a refund from wherever you purchased this shoddy thing. I don't believe it is meant to be trapezoidal."

Harry barked a laugh and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand when Malfoy turned curious eyes on him.

"I can tell you with certainty it was meant to be a square. I'm not great at counting rows," he admitted sheepishly. "I lose my place a lot, especially when watching telly."

" _You_ made this?" Malfoy's eyebrows climbed up to his hairline, his tone was incredulous.

"I did."

Malfoy seemed stunned. "I...didn't know you could knit," he remarked eventually.

"I'm obviously no master craftsman, but I know my way around a pair of knitting needles, though that blanket is crocheted. Molly taught me. It's, um, calming. It helps when I'm trying to unwind after a shift. I bake, as well. For the same reason." 

Harry stopped abruptly, realizing he'd been babbling. Why was he babbling? Malfoy made him nervous. With his unblinking stare and pointy features and nice-smelling cologne. Wait, scratch that last one. Totally irrelevant. Didn't bear thinking on.

Shit. Now even his internal monologue was babbling.

"This one is for you," he blurted, practically shoving the second basket at Malfoy and cursing his nerves.

Malfoy took it gingerly and set it on the sideboard.

" _Beer?_ " he asked, lifting the bottle for inspection, a hint of amusement in his voice. 

"That's a pale ale," Harry corrected. "In case of emergency. If you've had a shitty enough day, you won't want to mess about with glasses for wine or whatever it is you typically drink."

Malfoy almost smiled but then apparently thought better of it. Harry felt a thrill of satisfaction anyway.

"The rest of what's in there is just mindless entertainment. Cheesy paperback novels, crossword puzzles, sudoku, that kind of thing. When your brain goes to mush due to sleep deprivation you won't be able to concentrate enough for the sort of books I imagine you usually read for pleasure."

"Oh?" Malfoy arched a brow. "And what might those be?"

"Dusty old tomes that weigh more than Scorpius, probably."

Malfoy snorted. Harry didn't think he'd ever heard such an undignified sound from the proper pureblood before.

He shifted Scorpius to his other arm and surveyed the gifts, a look of consternation chasing the amusement away (for which Harry was unexpectedly saddened).

"This is all very thoughtful," Malfoy declared, "but I must ask: why are you doing this? It's not as though we are friends. Far from it."

"You wanted to be friends once," Harry replied before his brain had a chance to consider the wisdom of the words. He immediately regretted them.

Malfoy's expression hardened. "That was a long time ago."

"Look, I'm not out to make friends," he backpedaled. "Not necessarily, anyway." He found the idea wasn't as objectionable as one might expect given their history; he thought it would be prudent to explore the revelation at a later time. "I meant what I said in my letter--I want to help. Andromeda has had to raise Teddy by herself and I've seen how hard that's been for her, so I help out as much as I can. The same goes for Ron and Hermione. Even with two parents, managing a baby is difficult. I know you've got your mum here, but I've got some experience and availability, as well, so I thought it wouldn't hurt to offer."

"No one is that selfless," Malfoy objected, disbelief writ clear on his face. "What do you hope to gain from this?"

Harry considered his answer, determined to choose the words carefully this time. "There is a type of satisfaction or--I don't know, contentment?--that comes from helping someone. Have you really never experienced that before?"

Malfoy was quiet. ( _Godrick, maybe he_ hadn't _experienced it,_ Harry thought in dismay.) He then gave him a searching look.

Just when Harry was about to start fidgeting uncomfortably under the weight of that stare, Malfoy seemed to make up his mind.

"Would you like to stay for lunch?" he asked (stiffly, like it had been hard for him to do). "The house-elves will be serving it soon."

Harry was stunned.

"Yeah," he replied before he could think better of it.

Between him and Malfoy, he wasn't sure who was more surprised.


	4. Chapter 4

Potter had gone round the twist. That was the only explanation for it. And Draco must not be far behind because he'd invited the nutter to lunch. Salazar, what was he thinking?

Potter had arrived with gifts. Unusual, lopsided, and _muggle_ , but gifts all the same. And he'd been strangely charming with his fretful restlessness and unfiltered self-disclosures.

And that was how Draco knew _he'd_ lost the plot, as well. For him to think anything Potter did endearing would be otherwise unexplainable. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation Potter kept nattering on about getting to him. But then what was Potter's excuse? Working the graveyard shift? Perhaps it was the weight of his fame that had finally caused him to snap. It would make sense.

More sense than Potter coming to the Manor of his own free will to spend time with Draco and his son. (Surely the denizens of Hades were having a chilly snowball fight at that very moment.)

Draco peered at the troubling houseguest. Potter's forehead was creased with frown lines and he chewed subconsciously on his lip. Did he regret saying yes as much as Draco regretted the invitation that had prompted it?

Doubtful. (For Draco regretted it quite thoroughly indeed). Nevertheless...

" _Mipsy_ ," he called. The house-elf appeared with a muted pop, causing Scorpius to whimper and Potter to jump. "Please notify Mother that we will be having a guest for lunch," he directed, propping his son upright against his shoulder so he could pat his back consolingly.

"Yes sir, Master Draco, sir," the little elf squeaked, sneaking surreptitious glances at Potter and wringing her hands. Unannounced guests always made the house-elves anxious; they preferred preparing meals tailored to the tastes of everyone in attendance.

To alleviate her worry Draco inquired, "Do you have any food allergies or aversions, Potter?"

"Huh?" he blinked twice, unprepared for the question and struggling to process it. "Oh, no," he shook his head emphatically once he did. "I'll eat anything."

Draco was unsurprised but the elf was visibly relieved, as he'd hoped. "When will lunch be served, Mipsy?"

"Lunch is being served in ten minutes, Master Draco. But if you be wanting it sooner--"

"No. That is fine, thank you."

Mipsy curtsied and disapparated on the spot, making Scorpius fuss anew. 

When Draco looked up from shushing him, it was to find Potter watching him curiously. 

He remembered belatedly that Granger was an impassioned champion of elf-rights.

"Do you object to being served by a house-elf?"

"No, I've got one of my own, actually," Potter replied. "Kreacher. I inherited him. He's not nearly as polite as Mipsy, but he's quite helpful around the house and with making sure my socks match and that I go to bed at a reasonable hour and don't forget to eat. Things like that. It drives Hermione spare that I let him do anything for me but it would be inhumane to do otherwise when all he wants is to serve."

Draco lost count of how many times Potter had surprised him in the past few days. "That is not the perspective I would have expected from you."

"Heh." Potter tugged his fringe (a nervous habit Draco recalled from their school days). "Kreacher and Winky made me realize that not all house-elves are like Dobby. If they don't want to be free, it would be cruel to force freedom on them. Though they should be treated with kindness and respect no matter what." His expression firmed on the final sentiment. 

Scorpius had settled while Potter was speaking so Draco shuffled him to the other arm. For as small as his child was, he seemed impossibly heavy, especially when Draco held him while standing. With a wince he noted that his lower back was beginning to seize. Not for the first time, he wished he would develop whatever muscles he seemed to be lacking that would enable him to carry Scorpius comfortably for longer periods of time. 

"I know of Kreacher," he responded after the adjustment, "though I wasn't aware what had become of him. I am not familiar with this Winky."

Potter's expression grew complex. "She served the Crouch family," he answered. "She was freed against her will after..." he peered at Draco through his lashes, weighing his words, and settled on, "That business at the '94 Quidditch Cup. You remember?"

Draco did, unfortunately. It was considerate of Potter not to mention the Death Eater activity directly.

"She went to work at Hogwarts after that but she never recovered from the heartbreak of being fired by her family," he concluded. 

Draco nodded, stroking Scorpius's cheek absentmindedly with his thumb. "That is a common reaction, I'm afraid. Dobby was an uncommon elf."

Potter's face became awash with sadness. "He was," he replied somberly. 

Draco filed away the knowledge that the subject was a sensitive one. He then coughed politely to signal a change in topic. "Shall we make our way to the dining room?"

\------

Harry was relieved that the dining room Malfoy took them to was not the one in which Professor Burbage had been killed. (A distressing thing to be grateful for and one of the perils of spending time in a place that held so many dark memories.)

Narcissa was already seated at the long, polished table.

She looked virtually the same as the last time Harry had seen her, which was eight years ago at her trial. He wondered absently if she used one of those Fountain of Youth face creams for witches of a certain age and income-level. Supposedly they contained diamond dust to promote a youthful glow (or so the adverts claimed).

"Healer Potter," she greeted, rising gracefully to clasp his hand in her smaller one. "How good of you to join us." Her smile was slight but reassuring and Harry found himself mirroring it unthinkingly. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I had a few things to drop off for Scorpius and Ma--your son." He wasn't sure how to refer to Malfoy so he gestured at him with a tilt of his head. "He invited me to stay for lunch."

"I am pleased to know he hasn't forgotten his manners," she replied, directing the comment more to Malfoy than Harry.

Harry was grudgingly impressed when Malfoy resisted making a snide comment or rolling his eyes at the backhanded compliment; instead he passed Scorpius to Narcissa with the proclamation, "Your grandson misses you." (The way he rubbed his tired arms after the fact revealed his true motivation.)

He gladly would have held Scorpius but he thought Draco would be suspicious if he offered. Not unreasonably. Harry feared he was coming off like a baby-obsessed weirdo. He'd said all those things about Teddy and Rosie to show his baby-handling qualifications, but, upon reflection, they made him sound like one of those horrible baby snatchers that were occasionally in the news.

Ugh. This is why he had specialized in Spell Damage--his patients were frequently unconscious and therefore untroubled by his abysmal bedside manner...

\------

Though the conversation was stilted and the air fairly crackled with tension, the meal the house-elves had prepared was excellent and Mother's social graces more than made up for Potter's lack thereof. 

And he _had_ made an effort, Draco could admit in the privacy of his own head. He asked questions about Scorpius's temperament and habits and seemed genuinely interested in the answers. He also inquired about Draco's philosophy of parenting and was respectful of his reply (which amounted to 'Whatever Father did, do the opposite,' an approach Mother had been remarkably supportive of.) While hardly the most enjoyable meal in which Draco had ever partaken, it was far from the worst.

Nevertheless, he was exceedingly thankful it was over.

Being forced to uphold the pretense of polite interest and mannerly grace through an hour of inconsequential small talk (with someone with whom relations were strained, at best) had been quite the test of his training in etiquette.

The task was made harder still by the repeated and unwelcome intrusion of visions of the last time he and Potter had spoken in person in that cold, sterile little hospital room. It was rather difficult to smile blandly when it felt as though one's heart was being violently dissected.

After seeing Potter to the door and exchanging final farewells, Draco asked his mother to look after Scorpius for an hour so he could rest.

He spent the time crying instead.


	5. Chapter 5

"Thank you, Mipsy." Draco took the warmed bottle from the house-elf and offered it to Scorpius who latched on greedily.

Before she could disapparate, he stopped the elf to ask how her day had been. The poor creature was so confused by the out-of-character inquiry that she nearly burst into tears. Draco promptly dismissed her with a sigh.

Salazar, he was desperate for adult conversation. With someone other than his mother, that is. He was incredibly grateful for how wonderful she had been through everything--he'd no idea how he would have managed without her--but talking with someone who had changed one's nappies was qualitatively different than with a peer. And most of the time they just ended up discussing Scorpius anyway.

Draco gazed at his son.

Scorpius stared back at him with wide blue-grey eyes. Milky saliva dribbled out of the corners of his mouth. Draco wiped at it with the cloth that had become a permanent fixture on his person (usually slung over one of his shoulders or the other), but it was a sisyphean endeavor. His child leaked continuously; there was very little to be done about it.

"I do love you," Draco told him earnestly. "But your manners leave something to be desired."

Scorpius burbled in response, chin waggling in time with his vigorous suckling.

Draco missed Astoria acutely in moments like these. He felt her absence like a physical thing--a material hole in his heart and in his home. He avoided rooms where the lack was most tangible, the ones that had been her favourites or which held the strongest memories. He'd had to change bedrooms entirely, so great was the cavity in the one they'd shared.

Astoria had never wanted for interesting topics of conversation and her sly, cutting humour was almost guaranteed to make him smile. She would have been incredible with their child, patient and tender and coolly competent as she was in all things.

But she was gone. And she wasn't coming back, no matter how bitterly Draco cursed the fates that seemed determined to rob him of every last shred of happiness.

Gritting his teeth, he forcibly roused himself from his brooding. Scorpius needed a father who wasn't lost to melancholy or madness.

What Draco needed was a diversion. He should invite someone over for tea.

But who?

He'd fallen to this oppressive loneliness in the first place because his friends were poor company at present. Pansy was liable to burst into tears at the slightest provocation. Blaise, with his pitying looks and the emotional depth of a salamander, was the worst of both worlds. Greg...Greg was _too_ sensitive, actually, asking Draco about his feelings and offering the name of the Mind Healer he'd seen after Vince--

No. They wouldn't do. Draco needed someone who would be mindful of his grief without actively stirring it up. But his circle of friends had dwindled in the last few years. He hadn't spoken with Nott in months. Longer still for his former Quidditch teammates.

Who could he possibly...

\------

Harry nearly had a heart attack when a tufted head swiveled around and fixed bright orange eyes on him as he stepped out of the bathroom. He made a strangled noise somewhere between a shout and a curse and threw up his hands defensively, causing his towel to fall to the ground. He scrambled to retrieve it and cover his shame from the bloody owl that had scared him half to death.

It stared at him from the footboard of his bed and slowly blinked each eye in succession.

"Who are _you_ then?" he asked irritably, trying to get his heart rate under control as he tucked the towel firmly about his waist.

The unfamiliar bird fluffed its feathers at him and offered its leg. He cautiously untied the attached letter (dangerously near long, sharp, vicious-looking talons).

His heart gave another startled thump when he recognized the seal the parchment bore. It had been more than a month since Harry's daunting visit to Malfoy Manor. He hadn't heard a word from Malfoy in the meantime and didn't expect to at this point. He had been somewhat disappointed that Malfoy hadn't wanted to take him up on his offer to help (after what had seemed to him to be an amicable, if uneasy, meeting), but that was entirely his prerogative. You couldn't force assistance on someone who didn't want it. Harry had learned that the hard way. 

Besides, Malfoy seemed to be doing all right and Narcissa was pitching in more than he thought she might. So Harry figured he wasn't needed as much as he'd first thought and put the situation out of his mind.

As much as he could.

He still thought of Scorpius occasionally and wondered how he was getting on. He wished good things for the boy, knowing the deck was unfairly stacked against him. He felt a type of motherless kinship with him (as well as the burden of responsibility for the tragedy, even though he knew rationally he'd done all that he could).

He also thought of Malfoy now and again. Puzzled over him really. His gentleness with Scorpius and civility toward Harry so different from what he'd expected. But he didn't allow himself to entertain those thoughts for long. He could feel temptation pulling him in a fruitless direction. So he threw himself into his work, picking up overtime shifts and even bringing paperwork home (which was very much against the rules).

He'd even tried going to a muggle club, but that didn't hold the appeal it once had. Too much noise. Too much skin. Too much anonymity (something Harry never thought he'd get enough of after spending his whole life trying to live down a reputation that had always been to big for him). He came home feeling even more depressed than when he'd gone out and with nothing but a throbbing headache and a bitter taste in his mouth to show for it--

The owl interrupted his musing by snapping at the air above his hand. Harry jerked away reflexively but knew that if the bird had meant to hurt him, it would have.

It gave him an impatient look and hooted warningly.

Taking the hint, Harry broke the seal, unrolled the parchment, and read the elegant looping script it contained.

_Potter,_

_You are cordially invited to tea at the Manor, four p.m. on the morrow, if your schedule will allow it._

_Please respond promptly so the house-elves may be informed._

_D.M._

Harry had so many questions, chief among them was _Why?_ (but also: Who talked like that? How formally should he dress? Was anyone else going to be there? What is the protocol on bringing a gift for the host? Should he get a haircut beforehand?)

With the owl squinting menacingly at him, he decided to reply first and work on answering those questions later.

 _Malfoy,_ _I'll be there._

Harry chewed anxiously on the ragged edge of his thumbnail. Now he had to tell Ron he'd double-booked...


	6. Chapter 6

"He's gotten so big already!" Harry exclaimed when Malfoy opened the door for him (something he did with regularity, apparently).

Malfoy smirked, but there was no scorn in the expression. "I have been told they do that." He showed Harry in.

"Fine," he chuckled, "you're right. I just wasn't prepared for him to look so different, is all. His face is already more defined." He gently hooked his index finger under Scorpius' jaw and relished in the baby softness. (The puddle of drool, not so much.) "It looks like he's going to have your chin." 

"More's the pity," Malfoy muttered.

Harry scoffed. "I think he's going to do just fine in the looks department."

When his mind caught up to his mouth, his cheeks flushed hotly, but Malfoy merely quipped, "Well _that's_ a relief," his tone light and teasing.

Merlin, that made the blush worse.

Harry cleared his throat and cast about for a new (safer) subject, dropping his hand to his side as they made their way into the Manor's interior.

"So...will your mother be joining us?"

Malfoy shook his head. "Not today. She's gone to Diagon to do some shopping."

_Oh good. So it was just them. Him and Malfoy. All alone._

Harry gulped.

"Right. So...um, tea?"

Malfoy chuckled darkly. The sound did...things...to Harry. Far worse, however, were the low tones of the question that followed.

"Do I make you _nervous_ , Potter?" he asked over his shoulder. His smile was positively predatory.

"Godrick, yes!" Harry blurted, tugging at his hair.

Malfoy laughed outright. "Why ever so?" he pressed, grey eyes shining.

Harry was not about to tell Malfoy the half of it, but he could give an honest partial-answer.

"Things have never been exactly easy between us, have they? I don't know what to do with this--whatever it is we're doing now."

Malfoy ushered him into the sunroom and gestured for Harry to take a seat on the butter yellow sofa. "Fair enough," he responded. "But why should that spook you? I don't remember you being this jumpy when you laughed in the face of danger all through our school days."

He sat next to Harry and balanced Scorpius on his lap. Harry rubbed palms that were suddenly sweaty on his trouser legs. "That's different. I'm comfortable with a wand in my hand. I know how to act in black-and-white, good-and-evil, fight-or-die kind of situations. But social stuff? I'm rubbish. Whereas _you_ are totally in your element. I mean, you sent me a formal invitation _to tea_. I don't know the last formal invitation I got for something that wasn't a wedding."

Malfoy opened his mouth to reply but Scorpius began to fuss. Malfoy shushed him, swaying like a ship on the ocean. Scorpius settled immediately and set to gumming his chubby fist, staring blearily at nothing in particular.

"You're good with him," Harry remarked softly (content to gloss over his last bout of verbal diarrhea). It was sweet to watch. Malfoy was more confident in his role than Ron had been at this stage. By necessity, perhaps.

Malfoy looked down at his son. "I try," he said seriously. "It's one of the hardest damn things I've ever done."

Harry felt a tickle in his throat. That was possibly the most open Malfoy had ever been with him.

"I'm sure it is," he reflected. "But your effort shows."

Malfoy peered closely at him, emotions shifting across his face too quickly for Harry to place.

"Did you get a haircut?" he suddenly asked out of nowhere.

Merlin, every time Harry thought he might get his feet under him, Malfoy threw him for another loop.

"Er, yeah. I did," he stammered, feeling self-conscious.

"It's decent," Malfoy proclaimed with a quirk of his lips. _Stop the presses,_ Harry thought, _that was an almost-compliment from Malfoy about his hair!_ "I hope you tipped your miracle worker well."

And there's the missing sarcasm.All was right in the world.

Just then, Mipsy appeared with an elaborate tea service. Sandwiches, scones, cakes, pastries, clotted cream, and an assortment of jams. And tea and milk and sugar, of course.

Everything looked delicious but Harry was afraid to handle the china. The delicate floral teacup the elf handed him was so thin he could practically see through its edge. Heaven forbid he sneezed while holding it.

"Thank you, Mipsy," Malfoy said (continuing to astound Harry with his politeness) when she prepared a teacup to his liking. "This all looks lovely."

"Master Draco is being most welcome," she replied. "Does Master require anything else?"

"If I do, I will call."

Mipsy nodded, curtsied, and disapparated (far more quietly than Kreacher ever did).

Harry noticed that with a cup in one hand and Scorpius in the other, Malfoy was unable to make a plate for himself. He offered to do it for him.

"That's quite all right," Malfoy responded. After a moment's hesitation, "But if you wouldn't mind, perhaps you could hold Scorpius after you've eaten so that I may?"

Harry grinned, feeling inexplicably proud. "I would be delighted."

And then somehow they managed, against all odds, a perfectly pleasant afternoon tea. With just the two of them. (And Scorpius.)

They'd stuck to only the mildest of topics and Scorpius had posseted all over Harry's trousers, but the meal had been good and the conversation better than ok. Harry even managed not to chip the china.

"This has been…nice," Malfoy declared, sounding somewhat amazed. He set his empty teacup aside and reached for Scorpius. Harry relinquished him with a parting kiss, a habit born of his time with Rosie and Teddy that, fortunately, Malfoy didn't seem to mind.

"Yeah. It has," he replied (with the same hint of amazement). "Thank you for inviting me."

"Would you--" Malfoy broke eye contact and coughed, the first real sign he wasn't as self-assured as he had seemed all afternoon. "Would you like to come again next Tuesday?"

Harry felt a fluttering in his belly. He still didn't know why Malfoy had invited him him in the first place--he'd never figured out a good way to ask--but he was eager to do it again soon. "I'll have to juggle my schedule around a bit, but yes, I would like that."

Malfoy smiled, and it was like the sun (which had set almost an hour ago) was shining bright and warm as midday once again. 


	7. Chapter 7

"How was your tea, darling?" Mother asked as she swept into the room, colorful bags hanging from each arm.

"We plan to do it again next week," Draco said by way of reply.

Mother's answering smile was little more than a crinkling at the corners of her eyes, but Draco knew how to read her expressions. She was pleased.

"Tuesday next?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Oh, that is a shame," she sighed, setting her shopping on the rug. Luffkins popped in to gather and deposit the bags in her rooms, all but disappearing beneath the pile before he did. "I will miss Healer Potter for the second time," she affected lamentation. "I have a fitting at Twilfitt and Tattings a week from today."

That wasn't true, Draco was sure. But by this time tomorrow it would be. His mother preferred to supplement her lies with fact as often as she could. He appreciated the effort.

He wasn't certain what this thing with Potter was--he didn't know if the Savior-cum-Healer wanted to be his friend, Scorpius's au pair, or something else altogether. But he aimed to find out.

...

A week later, Draco stood frowning before his reflection in the mirror. His robes made him look washed out. And the dark circles under his eyes were resisting even the glamours he'd applied to diminish their severity.

 _This is ridiculous,_ he scolded. Potter didn't care how Draco looked. By all accounts, Potter hardly cared how _Potter_ looked. He'd probably show up in trainers. So why was Draco putting so much wasted effort into his appearance?

It was his breeding, he decided. Mother always told him one should look one's best, no matter the circumstances. It was difficult to ignore lessons so deeply ingrained.

With a resigned exhalation, he smoothed the front of his robes and went to retrieve Scorpius from his cot.

Scorpius was awake when Draco reached for him, but sucking contentedly on the green muggle dummy. Draco had tried persuading him to use a proper Wizarding one but his son was obstinate in his preferences, which amused Mother to no end (apparently he had been much the same way).

"Come, oh master of saliva conjuration," Draco bid as he hefted Scorpius into his arms. "Let us go downstairs to await our guest."

...

 _Say what you will about Potter's manners, the man was prompt,_ Draco thought as he went to answer Potter's knock. The timepiece on the mantle showed four o'clock exactly.

Potter offered a crooked grin for a hello. He wasn't wearing trainers but he did have on a pair of muggle denims along with a dress-casual shirt (in a reasonably flattering shade of green). He held a gift-wrapped package under one arm.

"Come in," Draco invited, eyeing the package. If Potter was trying to buy his friendship--well, he wasn't _entirely_ opposed. "How has your day been?" he inquired to break the ice.

"All right," Potter shrugged, following Draco into the house. "Nothing too exciting before now."

Draco smirked. "Does that mean this counts as exciting for you?" he drawled.

Potter's cheeks pinked and he ducked his head in an ineffectual attempt to hide that fact. Draco thought he may have discovered a new favourite pastime--trying to make The Boy Who Lived blush. It made him feel delightfully wicked, but not so much as to violate the terms of his post-War commitment to moral uprightness.

"How's _your_ day been?" Potter asked in a transparent attempt to change the subject as they walked to the solarium.

"Scorpius has had three baths today," Draco answered (with that sort of bragging tone of complaint one is entitled to after putting up with such annoyances). "This is his fifth outfit since this morning and my third. So I am rather looking forward to letting someone else be the receptacle for his bodily fluids for an hour or two."

Potter laughed, warm and relaxed. It was like Blaise's laugh but without the undercurrent of meanness.

"Between my job and the kids in my life, I've gotten fairly used to having others' bodily fluids on me. My _scourgify_ is in peak form."

Salazar, Potter was making this almost too easy for him.

"That makes you sound like a rent boy rather than a Healer, you realize..."

Potter spluttered. The resulting flush started on his face, trailed down his neck, and disappeared into his shirt, inspiring Draco to develop a scoring system for his private game: 1 point for cheeks/face, 2 for face and neck, 3 for a full-body blush. (He was up to 4 points already and they had only just finished greetings!)

Potter recovered fairly quickly and turned a squinty glare on him. "You're doing that on purpose, aren't you?" he demanded.

Draco shrugged but couldn't suppress the entirety of his smug grin.

Potter matched his stride with Draco's so he could cover Scorpius's ears and call him a prat. It was the most winsome insult he had ever received.

Mipsy was waiting with the tea service already in place when they arrived at the solarium. Draco noted that she had included more of the items Potter had shown a preference to last week without being asked. She was his favourite house-elf for a reason.

He and Potter seated themselves on the same sofa as before. Draco was glad Potter hadn't retreated to one of the chairs for it meant he was not too put out by the game (and that meant Draco could keep playing).

"This is for you and Scorpius," Potter said, handing him the gift.

Draco passed Scorpius to Potter (who smiled fondly at the boy) and took the package on to his lap. He tore the paper away and revealed a...long strip of navy blue fabric.

"What is it?" he asked, baffled.

Potter was bouncing Scorpius gently on his knee. "It's a papoose," he stated, as if that were obvious. "Hermione has one like it. It's a bit tricky to get the hang of tying at first, but it's quite handy once you do. It'll let you have both your arms free while holding Scorpius and it's better for your back because it distributes the weight more evenly."

Draco held the fabric up for inspection. It did not seem possible for it to be configured so as to hold his son securely. Even with a tight knot, wouldn't he just slip out the bottom?

"Here, I'll show you," Potter offered. He stood with his hand out for the cloth. "You'll do it a bit differently when he's bigger and can hold his head up on his own, but this is a good way for now." He positioned Scorpius against his torso and deftly wrapped the fabric across his shoulders and around his waist, tying it off in the back.

Sure enough, Scorpius seemed snug.

Draco stood to examine the device. He tugged on different bits to test their stability--they had very little give beyond the natural stretch of the fabric.

Potter demonstrated his range of motion, which was a good deal more than Draco usually had with Scorpius in his arms. He could certainly put the thing to use.

If he could discern how to actually use it. 

Potter grinned at Draco's look of doubt. He used one hand to hold Scorpius against his chest and the other to untie the knot; again, quite skillfully. He hadn't exaggerated his experience with small children, it seemed.

"Give it a try," he encouraged, passing the papoose to Draco. "Use a pillow first. When you feel pretty confident with that, we'll have a go with Scorpius inside."

Draco was unsure. If he did it incorrectly and dropped his son...

"I won't let him fall," Potter reassured as if reading his thoughts. "And I'm confident your reflexes are still sharp enough to catch him on your own."

Draco studied Potter for a moment. He had never known him to be this kind. He wondered if perhaps he had never really known him at all, although 15-year-old Draco would have blustered at such a proposition. _He_ knew Potter--Potter was a vainglorious attention hog who skated by on his fame and never suffered a single consequence for his frequent indiscretions. 

The man before him was not that boy. It seemed quite possible he never had been.

Draco had much to think on.

And a wrap to try. 

...

Scorpius slept peacefully in his new papoose. Nothing was left of their tea but crumbs and dregs long since cooled. The conversation dwindled.

They'd talked about why Potter had decided to pursue Healing--predominantly a compulsive need to help (Draco was beginning to see a pattern)--and what Draco did with his time (managing the family businesses--those that hadn't been shut down or sold off for being too unsavory--with a bit of dabbling in alchemy on the side). They'd touched on Potter's relationships with his adoptive family and how Draco and his mother fared in the wake of the War. (They had tiptoed cautiously through that minefield of a topic.)

It was a natural time to call it a night, but Draco was torn over inviting Potter back next week.

On the one hand, Potter was the best company available to him at the moment. On the other, he was loathe to appear so desperate. Especially to him.

While Draco weighed his options, the subject of his dilemma took the opportunity from him, asking, "Would you like to bring Scorpius to mine next week? It seems only fair after you've hosted twice in a row." He'd said it lightly but his bottom lip was now firmly held between his teeth.

Draco felt a foreign emotion spurring him to accept. (If he had to name it, it would probably be compassion.) When had he become susceptible to such pathetic displays of uncertainty?

Hating himself a little, he replied, "Same time?"

Potter beamed. Draco hated himself slightly less in response.

He would have to bring a gift...


	8. Chapter 8

"Do you have everything you need?" Harry asked Kreacher as the gnarled house-elf broke eggs into a bowl from atop his little wooden step stool. "I could do some shopping. Do you need me to do any shopping?"

"Kreacher is being done with the shopping. Kreacher went early while Master Harry slept," he answered flatly without looking up from his task.

"Oh, ok." _Bollocks_. "Well, do you want any help in here? I can chop the vegetables or make the scones or slice the bre--"

Kreacher cut Harry off with a withering glare, holding an uncracked egg in midair. "It has been many years since he has done so, but Kreacher has not forgotten how to serve tea, Master Harry," he rasped.

Without breaking the stare, he snapped the knobby fingers of his free hand and the cucumbers and tomatoes on the counter fell instantly into thin, even slices.

Harry's shoulders slumped. "I need to do something or I'll go spare," he whined. His anxiety over hosting had reached an intolerable level.

"Master Harry can go make himself presentable," Kreacher asserted. "That will take all the time until Lord Malfoy arrives. Master Harry has much to do." Kreacher looked pointedly from the top of Harry's head, to his faded t-shirt and torn denims, and finally to the well-worn trainers on his feet. " _Much_ to do," he repeated before cracking the egg decisively against the lip of the bowl.

...

"Ruddy house-elf," Harry grumbled, yanking off the fourth tie he'd tried pairing with his outfit and tossing it onto the growing pile on the floor. As if he wasn't stressed enough already, Kreacher had him in a strop over his clothes. (He'd already given up on his hair as a lost cause).

Checking the time, he decided to forgo the tie. Malfoy would be there any minute so Harry needed to be done faffing about with his wardrobe. Plus neckwear always made him feel like he was being weakly strangled. He wouldn't miss it.

Taking one last look in the mirror and deciding that was as good as it was going to get, he jogged downstairs to wait for his guests. The Floo roared to life just as he reached the bottom.

Despite the fact he was carrying a baby, Malfoy came out of the flames more gracefully than Harry ever would. He noted that Malfoy was wearing the papoose and took some solace in it. 

"Is it working for you, then?" he asked, shamelessly fishing for praise as he gestured to the wrap.

Malfoy nodded, resting one hand on Scorpius's back. (He held a gift bag in the other but Harry was trying to ignore it and be a courteous host.) "Even if I wasn't using it frequently around the house--which I am--it is indispensable for Floo travel. I don't know why anyone would choose to simply hold their child and hope for the best when a device like this is available."

Harry grinned. "Well it _is_ a muggle invention. A lot of people in the Wizarding community would shun it for that reason alone."

Malfoy pretended dismay. "Whoever would be so closed-minded?" he exclaimed, making Harry snort with repressed laughter. "These are for you," he added, smiling with his eyes as he handed Harry the bag. "I didn't know if you prefer red or white so I brought one of each."

Harry peeked inside to find two bottles of wine.

"Thank you! That's great. I like them the same, actually." Which is to say, not very much, but Harry firmly believed that it's the thought that counts. "Come on in. Kreacher's been so excited to serve a real life descendent of the 'Ancient and Most Noble House of Black,'" his sarcasm was unmistakably thick on the title, "rather than a pretender like me."

Malfoy chuckled and followed Harry through the front hall. "Does he call you a pretender to your face or just mutter it while he's shining your shoes?"

"Oh, right to my face," Harry answered baldly. "We have an understanding. He calls me an uncultured half-blood barbarian insult to this grand estate and I call him a grumpy old coot. But we mean it with love," he clarified, smiling wryly. "It's rather like our relationship. Er, except the love bit."

Harry wished the creaky floorboards would finally give way and swallow him whole. What was it about Malfoy that compelled him to say such mortifying things?

Malfoy, for his part, had the decency to smirk and leave it at that.

"Could I trouble you for a tour?" he asked after a moment. "I've never been to the Black Estate before. My mother used to play here when she was a girl."

 _Thank Merlin he is feeling charitable_ , Harry thought as his preemptive blush began to fade.

"She and my godfather were cousins," he said (unnecessarily; Malfoy probably knew more about the genealogies than Harry knew of healing potions). "There's a tapestry upstairs with the family tree on it. You and Scorpius are there." Astoria, too, but he opted not to mention that. "Walburga burned several names off but I convinced Kreacher to help me fix it a couple years ago."

"Oh?" Malfoy seemed genuinely interested. "We have a tapestry like that in the Manor. I wasn't aware there were any others."

Harry gave Malfoy the requested tour with the exception of the third floor, where his room was a frightful mess and Sirius and Regulus's were as they'd left them. (He hadn't been able to bring himself to change them when he'd remodeled the rest of the house.)

Malfoy asked a number of questions about which pieces were original (few) and what changes Harry had made (many). Harry offered him a look through the attic sometime to see if there were any family heirlooms he would like to have, figuring they may as well be owned by someone who appreciated them. Malfoy indicated he would gladly take him up on it. 

He ended the tour at the first floor drawing room where the tapestry hung and asked Kreacher to serve their tea there. It was as good a place as any for it. The furniture was serviceable and the light outside the windows was nice this time of day (even if the view of the busy street below wasn't much to speak of).

\------

Draco finished his second cup of tea and determined it was imperative that he not have a third. His bladder was well past the uncomfortable stage of fullness. He and Potter had finally gotten to the point of openly discussing weighty topics and he didn't want to interrupt the conversation and risk ending it.

Presently they'd been chatting about Potter's eighth year at Hogwarts and the rigorous study schedule Granger had assigned him. Scorpius was laying happily on a blanket surrounded by a pile of toys and novelties Potter kept on hand for just such an occasion. He was most taken with the small stuffed lion that was charmed to pace about and roar.

Salazar save him if his son turned out to be a Gryffindor.

"Why didn't you go back?" Potter asked suddenly.

Draco frowned. He thought the answer was obvious.

"It's not as though I was the only Slytherin who elected not to return. And those who did didn't exactly have an easy go of things, did they?"

Potter's look (guilty by association) was answer enough.

Draco continued, "Headmistress McGonagall invited everyone, sure, but what of the students themselves? You and I both know I wasn't truly welcome. I would have been lynched before the Sorting was through."

Potter looked abashed. As well he should. "What did you do instead, then?"

Out of habit, Draco almost reached for his teacup (which the ancient house-elf had popped in to refill the moment he'd set it on the table) but  caught himself in time. "I studied on my own. Not much else to do during house arrest. I sat my N.E.W.T.s at the Ministry Testing Centre May of '99. I got top marks in Potions, Transfiguration, Arithmancy, Charms, Defense, Herbology, Runes, and Muggle Studies. Not that I needed them to manage the businesses. I wanted to have the accomplishment for a sense of normalcy more than anything else."

Potter held up a hand, expression one of disbelief. "Hang on. Did I hear right that you took N.E.W.T-level _Muggle Studies_?"

Draco gave a self-satisfied smirk. "Yes. And I earned an O on the exam. Does that surprise you?"

"Well, yeah," Potter admitted, brow furrowed.

Draco chuckled. "I know. I was only teasing. About the surprise, that is. I really did earn Outstanding."

Potter shook his head, amazed and bewildered. "Why, though? I thought you hated all things muggle."

"I did. That is why I thought it important to take the class. I wouldn't go so far as to say I am now a fan of muggles, but I have a better understanding of and appreciation for their culture after having done so. And an even more recent appreciation for their ingenuity," he added, glancing at the papoose occupying an empty chair. 

Potter grinned and leaned back into the sofa, kicking an ankle over his knee and extending an arm across the back. He was the very picture of relaxation. 

Something had been gnawing at Draco and this seemed as good a time as any to ask about it.

"Why have I never heard a thing about your romantic life since school? Did you buy off all the papers?"

Not only had there never been any mention of it in the press (beyond the usual slavering and completely baseless speculation), there wasn't a single item readily apparent in Potter's home that indicated a romantic attachment in his life. Draco had checked.

"Heh. No." Potter ran a hand through his hair, mussing it thoroughly. (Draco's fingers itched to fix the mess, but he forced them still in his lap.) "There's never been a need. I don't have much time for dating between work and my family and the other things I do during the week."

There was something there, under the surface. Draco was sure. But how to uncover it? He'd try the indirect approach first--Potter seemed skittish.

"What sort of things?"

The tense set of Potter's shoulders loosened (signaling to Draco that romance was where the secret lay). "Oh, I help out at George's shop on the weekends when they get quite busy and I do a few things around the house for Molly and Arthur before Sunday dinners now that they're getting up in years and the kids have all moved out. I'm usually at Andromeda's at least once a week so she can have a night off and I try to do the same for Ron and 'Mione. And there's the soup kitchen on Tuesdays and the RSPCA on Thursdays."

Draco was struggling to keep up. Potter was speaking rapidly about individuals Draco hardly knew and organizations he certainly didn't.

"The RS-what-now?"

"The RSPCA," Potter repeated, like the jumble of letters would suddenly become meaningful to him. "The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals," he elaborated when Draco continued staring blankly. "They have a branch near here. I walk the dogs on Thursdays. And I foster kittens sometimes. Kreacher likes it when I do, but don't tell him I told you that. He'll never admit to it." Potter winked. 

It was absurdly charming, but Draco refused to let himself be distracted. 

"Do you ever have any time to yourself?" he asked incredulously, sorting through and storing the glut information as quickly as he could.

"Some," Potter shrugged. "That's when I make things. I donate most of my scarves and hats to the folks at the soup kitchen and I like to bring biscuits in to work sometimes. Everyone likes homemade biscuits."

Draco was speechless. After years of using it as an insult, it was somewhat disconcerting to learn that Potter was, in fact, an honest-to-goodness saint.

"Don't you ever want to do anything for yourself? Like go to a Quidditch match or read a book or date, or I don't know, keep one of those sad orphaned kittens?"

Potter picked at a loose thread on the lowest button of his shirt, avoiding eye contact. "I get antsy when I'm by myself. Especially when I'm sitting still and don't have anything to do with my hands. Maybe it's because I hardly ever had any downtime growing up. I don't know. But the point you're missing is that I like doing all those things. Sure I get tired sometimes, but mostly I enjoy it."

Though quite informative, that line of questioning hadn't gotten Draco any nearer to the elusive secret. Time for a more direct tack.

"What ever happened to you and Weasley's sister? Weren't you supposed to have a whole brood of ginger children by now?"

Potter was demonstrably agitated. "We took a break because of the War and never ended up getting back together," he said tersely.

Draco realized it was time to cut his losses; Potter was shutting down under the strain of the conversation.

"I've been greedy with my questions," he admitted with a self-deprecating grin and openhanded gesture towards Potter. "It is your turn, I believe."

Potter flashed a grateful smile and Draco knew he had made the right decision.

Though, like a crup with a bone, he perseverated on the mystery long after they'd said their goodnights.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry had an epiphany at Rosie's first birthday party. No, not an epiphany. Those were usually good, weren't they? This was decidedly not. So...an earth shattering revelation, perhaps.

Whatever you wanted to call it, the fact was he was in love with Draco Malfoy.

He realized it round about the time Rosie was gleefully smashing her cake with both hands. The lawn of the Burrow had been decked out with festive balloons and streamers. Jazzy, uptempo music played on the Wireless. The merry sounds of conversation and laughter floated all around him and Harry had a plate heaped with Molly's delicious cooking in one hand and a cold bottle of beer in the other. He was surrounded by his loved ones and his heart was filled to bursting with joy.

It was a very nearly perfect moment, the sort of memory pensieves were made for. 

Thinking this, he'd looked around the yard at his assembled family. Molly stood beaming tearfully at her youngest grandchild, a more restrained but no less proud Arthur at her side. Ron was taking pictures as fast as the camera would capture them while Hermione shouted directions at him and tried in vain to get Rosie to look at her father. Fleur smiled serenely at the scene and leaned her head on Bill's shoulder while he kept an eye on the other children to make sure they stayed out of trouble. Victoire was chasing a shrieking Teddy around the trees as Dominique, Louise, Freddie, and little Molly tried to keep up.

Ginny was there with Dean--Harry expected an announcement from that quarter any day now. George and Angelina whispered to one another wearing matching expressions of mischief in the shade of the veranda. Percy surreptitiously rested his hand on the small of Audrey's back.

And Harry realized he was alone. No, that wasn't quite right; he was surrounded by people, after all. But he _was_ lonely. Terribly, frightfully so. He wished Draco and Scorpius were there. Wished it fiercely. Because he was celebrating Rosie's birthday with the people that he loved and those two were undeniably counted among that number. It didn't feel right to be celebrating without them. And given the sort of dreams that had been keeping him up at night, he knew that what he felt for Draco wasn't platonic like the love he had for the men at the Burrow. Knew it with a heart wrenching certainty that stole the breath from his lungs.

Knew it to the depths of his very soul. 

For a moment, Harry's head swam as panic threatened to overtake him. What a fool he had been to let this happen, he thought bitterly.

He didn't even know when it had.

He'd seen Draco at least once a week, every week for nearly six months. There had been plenty of opportunities for him to fall.

Maybe it was the time just last week when Harry had come back to the second floor bedroom that he and Ron had once shared, which had been converted into a kitten nursery/play space. He'd left Draco and Scorpius visiting with his (and Kreacher's) latest batch of moggies so he could fetch a clean towel. He'd returned to find Draco flat on his back, overrun with kittens, as Scorpius giggled and squealed with delight, reaching for the zooming little balls of fur (that were thankfully too agile and quick for him to actually grab). Draco had tried pretending he was on the floor for Scorpius's sake but Harry had seen the naked delight on his face at the brown and ginger tabbies tumbling through his fancy robes and dashing across his torso when he hadn't known that Harry was watching.

Or maybe it was the time two months ago when Draco had firecalled near-hysterical in the middle of the night because Scorpius had a high fever that wasn't responding to potions. He'd called Harry _Harry_ for the first time without seeming to realize it. Harry had Flooed over in his pyjamas--and with his heart in his throat--and got the fever sorted. He'd then stayed through the night to make sure Scorpius was ok and to ease Draco's worry. Draco had almost wept with gratitude. They hadn't gone back to surnames after that.

Perhaps it was that first time Draco had invited Harry for tea and he'd gotten to know him as someone different than the boy he'd known in school--a devoted father and loving son, a man who handled his grief with dignity and poise, someone who was willing to spend an afternoon with Harry in spite of everything there was between them and was open to learning the ways he'd changed, as well.

It could have been any one of the hundreds of moments since then when Draco had smiled at him or plucked a speck of lint off his shirt or listened to Harry when he talked or teased him about a blush or handed him Scorpius or stolen a chip from his basket or just sat there breathing and being _Draco_.

Yes, Harry was hopelessly and irrevocably in love.

And it was one of the worst things that had ever happened to him, near the top of the long list of unfortunate circumstances that characterized his life.

...

"I'm sorry, Draco, I can't make it this week," Harry spoke regretfully into the flames.

A frown flickered on Draco's face but he twisted it into a smirk. "Why?" he leered. "Got a date?"

Harry's stomach clenched. Draco asked that whenever Harry had to cancel (he was always pestering Harry about his dating life but Harry never told him much; not that there was much to tell). It made him feel awkward every time, though it hadn't stung quite like this before.

"No, I just had something come up at work," he lied. "I've got to go in tonight to take care of it. Just a paperwork thing, but it has to be done ASAP. You know how it goes."

Draco narrowed his eyes. Harry hoped the fire obscured the flush that was climbing his throat. He hated lying, but he couldn't very well say, 'I can't see you tonight because I recently realized I'm in love with you and I'm still trying to figure out how to deal with it.'

"Ok," Draco relented, "but you're still coming to the park with us on Saturday, right?"

Harry's stomach unclenched enough to perform an unpleasant somersault. "Yeah, of course. Wouldn't miss it."

"Good," Draco nodded. "How was  mini-Weasley's party, by the way?"

Harry nearly choked. "Uh, it was good. Really nice. I'll tell you all about it on Saturday. But I gotta go, sorry!"

He hastily ended the Floo connection and thumped his head against the warm stones of the hearth.

He had four days to learn how to cope with this or Saturday was going to be a disaster.

...

Harry did a very stupid thing. A tremendously, colossally, impossibly stupid thing.

He got shitfaced in public. _Wizarding_ public.

He'd been so distraught after canceling on Draco and then by the hurricane of emotions that had stirred up inside him (all thundering waves and hot lighting and roiling seas), and finding himself suddenly free on a Tuesday night for the first time in months, he couldn't bear the prospect of staying home so he decided to go out drinking.

And drink he had.

He'd drunk like he'd been been hit with the desiccating curse and Ogden's was the only cure. Or like he'd been stranded in the sweltering desert for a month and pure, sweet, cool water was what the bartender was serving.

Like he'd been dared to do it.

Like he'd been _born_ to do it.

Like he'd somehow find answers and absolution at the bottom of his glass.

Like there was no tomorrow. (Maybe there wouldn't be.)

And he'd found himself staring glassy-eyed at a tall, blond stranger (who may or may not have born a passing resemblance to someone Harry knew) virtually owning the dance floor in his tight black trousers and loose white vest. And the bloke had caught him looking and swaggered up to say hello.

They'd shared a drink. And then a kiss. And then one thing led to another and they were snogging in a dirty, stinking alley behind the club and it was hard and wet and urgent and Harry's head was fuzzy from the booze and all of it felt right.

And then the bloke had dropped to his knees and Harry wanted so desperately to take what he was offering but a bolt of sudden, painful clarity cut through the alcohol and lust fueled haze when the eyes that locked with his were brown not grey. It wasn't right. No, not at all. He panicked and apparated home without so much as an apology or goodbye.

...

Harry slept off the hangover as best he could and used a potion to clear the worst of the symptoms so he could manage at work the next evening, but Healer Furikawa met him at the door to the ward when he arrived. She led him to her office and asked--in hushed tones and with sympathetic eyes--if he had seen the papers.

Harry felt as though he just might come apart at the seams.

He weakly shook his head no, but the clawing dread that worked its way up his spine at her solicitous manner told him just what to expect. His supervisor sent him home with a carefully folded copy of the Prophet from atop her meticulously organized desk and the explanation that, while he wasn't in trouble, it would be too distracting for the other Healers to have him on the floor that night. 

Numbly, Harry stumbled to the Floo and tried without success to ignore the whispers and stares that followed in his wake, pressing in on him until he was as claustrophobic as the worst nights of the cupboard under the stairs.

When he fell out of the flames into the supposed safety of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, he was met with a sight that made him feel like he might sick up on the rug. 

Draco was sitting on his sofa, expression stony, mouth a hard line. Another copy of the Prophet was spread open on the table before him containing several high-gloss photos of Harry and the wizard from the club snogging and groping in lurid detail and on infinite loop.

"We need to talk," Draco said grimly.


	10. Chapter 10

"What are you doing here?" Harry crossed his arms in front of his torso, seeming torn between confronting Draco and folding in on himself defensively.

"Waiting to talk to you," Draco answered, betraying nothing in his posture or tone.

Harry didn't leave the hearth. Perhaps he thought the Floo a viable escape route. "But I wasn't due back for twelve hours," he argued. "Were you planning on waiting all that time?"

"I had it on good authority that you would not be working your shift this evening." In fact, Draco was the one who had alerted Harry's supervisor to the article in the paper (anonymously, of course). He might also have heavily implied that he was a reporter who planned on camping out in the hospital for a chance at an interview with the suddenly scandal-ridden Saviour. "When were you going to tell me that you're bent?"

Harry flinched, but steeled his spine shortly thereafter. "Um. Never?" Though his intonation was that of a question, his brilliant green eyes flashed challenge. "I don't see as it's any of your business."

Draco felt the words like a slap, reminiscent of the gut-punching sensation he'd experienced upon seeing the morning edition of the Prophet. Which was irrational, he knew. It's not as though he and Harry were dating. What was it to him who the man elected to debase himself with in the middle of the street?

Except that it did concern him. Rather a lot. Because he _wanted_ to be dating Harry. And had thought he might...if he could ever divine the slippery bastard's opinion on the matter.

There were times that Draco was certain he saw interest (even desire) in Harry's gaze, but Harry always locked up tighter than his father's cell on Azkaban whenever he engaged in the even the most modest of flirtation. At first the question of Harry's sexuality had simply been a puzzle Draco wanted to solve for its own sake, but he had become more than a little personally invested in the outcome as of late.

"Is Scorpius here?" Harry asked out of the blue, looking around the room like Draco might have hidden his son in a corner somewhere.

"He is with Mother. But don't change the subject." Harry frowned. "Now, I wouldn't be so bold as to call your sexual orientation 'my business,'" Draco continued, "but it seems rather the sort of thing one might share with a friend." He allowed a portion of his genuine hurt to slip into his voice, "Merlin's sake, Harry, I thought you trusted me." (More got through than he'd intended. Oh well.)

Harry froze. His face crumpled before Draco's eyes, his whole body soon following. Draco was off the couch and at his side in an instant.

Harry knelt with his head in his hands, great, shuddering breaths causing his shoulders to quake.

Draco rubbed an open palm across his back, murmuring soothing nonsense like he did for Scorpius. He refused to take back what he'd said, however. He felt that he was owed a reckoning for at least that much.

"M'sorry," Harry mumbled into his hands after a few seconds. "'ve had a really rough couple of days."

Draco prised Harry's hands away and tilted his head up so he could hear him without impediment and see his face. "I can imagine," he stated. Then, "This isn't like you. What's going on?"

Harry's eyes slid shut as if he were pained. "Do you mean besides me being a gigantic tit?" he muttered.

Draco chuckled softly. "I'm not sure. That seems germane to the discussion."

Harry cracked one eye open and his lips twitched with a glimmer of amusement. "You're probably right," he sighed, dropping down onto his bum.

"I often am," Draco replied unironically.

Harry smiled in earnest, though it was a weak, watery thing that was gone almost as soon as it had appeared.

He hooked his arms round his knees and stared off into the middle distance. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want to lose your friendship," he admitted morosely.

Draco seated himself on the hearth. "If your awful hair and worse sense of fashion didn't put me off having you as a friend, why would you ever think your orientation would?"

Harry snorted. "It isn't that."  
He hesitated, then inhaled decisively and charged forward like the Gryffindor he was. "It's what it means for us."

Draco's heart gave a hopeful leap. "What does it mean, exactly," he inquired, carefully measuring the space between each word.

Harry worried his lip for a moment. Draco held his breath.

"I have feelings for you," he whispered. "Feelings that go beyond friendship. I'm sorry. I know you don--"

Whatever idiotic thing Harry had been about to say was silenced by Draco's kiss.

Initially, he was stiff and unresponsive. And that was unacceptable. Draco threaded the fingers of one hand into Harry's thick, coarse mane and clutched at his waist with the other. He poured out molten heat until Harry's mouth fell open under his assault and a delicious moan escaped lips that were now soft and yielding.

Draco's blood sang when Harry finally returned the kiss, arching up off the ground and nearly toppling them both in his eagerness. He latched on to Draco's wrists, whether to hold him in place or break away from his grip was unclear. He tilted his head forward and licked his way in to Draco's mouth, his questing tongue a welcome presence.

Draco mapped the contours of Harry's mouth with his own tongue and relished in the urgent, needy sounds he made in response.

All too soon, however, Harry broke away.

Behind his spectacles, his eyes were wide with confusion and dark with lust. "Wha--? I don't. But you--" he panted half-formed questions, tugging anxiously on his fringe.

Draco released a shuddery breath. "I want you, Harry," he explained as patiently as he could given the circumstances. "I've wanted you for some time. I haven't been exactly subtle about it, either, but you seemed bound and determined to ignore my come-ons."

\------

Harry's last surviving brain cells spontaneously combusted. He couldn't put two thoughts together if his life depended on it.

"Draco, are...are _you_ bent?" he asked, voice cracking embarrassingly on the word.

"Not exclusively." Draco's voice had descended to a lower register that made the heat pooling in Harry's belly slither and squirm. "I dallied with both sexes before my marriage."

It was fortunate for Harry that he was already on the ground because his legs felt woefully inadequate for the task of supporting him. "I had no idea..."

Draco smirked. "You never asked. And, frankly, your observation skills are poor--I check out your arse constantly. You would have made a shite Auror."

Harry barked a laugh. (His hands trembled where they were knotted in his lap.) "In my defense, I had a couple good reasons for thinking you were straight," he replied.

They'd never talked about Astoria. That was as direct a reference as he'd ever made. It always seemed too personal for Draco, too painful. Her ghost sometimes hung so heavily around the Manor that Harry would suggest going on an outing just to get out from under its oppressive weight.

But it slowly dawned on him that that hadn't happened for a while. And it had been lessening by degrees before then. And he hadn't even noticed.

His observation skills really were shite.

"That's fair, I suppose," Draco acknowledged, gaze turning inward.

Harry sat very still so as not to intrude.

After a moment, Draco sniffed. "I should firecall Mother," he said, turning to Harry once again, "to let her know your execution has been stayed." Harry let out a breathless chuckle. "And you should change out of those robes," he glanced at the robes in question with a look of extreme prejudice. "Lime green is an insult to the colour spectrum."

Harry snorted--leave it to Draco to criticize his outfit at a time like this--but he heaved himself up off the ground to comply and offered Draco a hand. "Um...should I put some tea on or something?" he asked hesitatingly, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn't know how long Draco intended to stay or what he planned to do next and Harry was absolutely done with making assumptions one way or the other.

"Tea is always a good idea," Draco replied absently, taking a pinch of Floo powder in hand.

So Harry made his way unsteadily to the kitchen, only to find that Kreacher had beaten him there. The kettle was on the hob and Kreacher was arranging biscuits on a plate.

"It's rude to eavesdrop," Harry chided, leaning against the stairway (his legs were still quite wobbly).

"Kreacher isn't eavesdropping. Kreacher is _serving_ ," the house-elf retorted without looking up.

Harry rolled his eyes and went up to his room to change, smiling over the brief exchange.

The smile was gone before he reached the first floor, extinguished by the crush of thoughts that tumbled through his head.

Draco had kissed him and, _Godrick_ , Harry had kissed him back. There was no hiding how he felt now.

But how did _Draco_ feel? He didn't know besides the wanting Draco had confessed. Was that it? A desire to get back in the saddle with someone who didn't remind him of his dead wife?

The heat in Harry's belly turned cold and sour at the thought.

But if it helped Draco overcome his heartache, Harry would do it. Merlin, he would do anything.

Oh but it would cost him dearly.

...

Draco had finished his firecall by the time Harry returned.

He was seated on the sofa, long legs crossed loosely at his ankles and a cup of tea in hand. He blew gently across its surface to cool it, as Harry had seem him do a hundred times (whereas _he_ tended to forget and accidentally scald his mouth).

Harry wondered when he'd fallen in love with even that unremarkable act.

He seated himself on the opposite end of the sofa and picked up the cup of tea Kreacher had prepared for him, if only to have something to do with his hands. He contemplated a biscuit but his stomach rebelled at the thought.

"I owe you an apology," Draco said unexpectedly.

"What? Why?" Harry was genuinely at a loss. Draco uttered those words seldom enough that he almost thought he had misheard, but even when he was sure about what had been said, he still had no idea what it could be for. (Except maybe showing up uninvited, but that wasn't the sort of thing Draco would feel guilt over).

"I shouldn't have kissed you like that. It was presumptuous. I don't know what sort of relationship you have with the man in those photos," Draco gestured at the paper with his teacup but Harry refused to let his eyes follow; he'd be burning that bloody thing soon enough. "I'm not the sort of person who would knowingly come between lovers, no matter that my reputation may suggest otherwise."

Holy hell. Draco was giving Snape a run for his money as the world's most noble reformed Death Eater.

"Oh, Draco. No, it's fine. Not a problem. I don't know that bloke and won't be seeing him again." Harry replayed his words and wasn't happy with them. "That sounds really slaggy. It wasn't like that. Well, it was. Sort of. Er, mostly, I guess. But I was really drunk."

The longer Harry talked the worse it got (and the higher Draco's eyebrow rose). Ugh. It wasn't coming out right at all.

"Let me try again," he begged, willing his brain to work properly and his mouth to calm the fuck down before it ruined everything. "I honestly didn't think anything would happen with him," he said slowly. "And for the record, nothing did except what's in the pictures. Though that's plenty shameful enough," he grimaced.

Draco smirked. "I would say I feel sorry for the man, but it wouldn't be truthful."

Harry giggled (one part relief, one part hysteria). " _I_ do, but that's my problem." He took a breath before divulging, "I have something of a knack for picking men who are unavailable. They're either in a relationship or straight or emotionally crippled or some combination of the above."

"And you thought that was the case with me." Draco set down his cup and leaned toward Harry. Attentive. Interested.

"Yeah. Hermione thinks it's a subconscious defense mechanism because I'm afraid of intimacy."

"And what do you say to that?"

Harry grinned. "That if she wants me to listen to her psychoanalysis she needs to get licensed as a Mind Healer."

Draco snorted. "A galleon says she's seriously considered it."

"She has!" Harry exclaimed. "She probably would have done it, too, if Rosie hadn't come along when she did. My little life saver, that one."

They laughed together. It was cathartic. And a little unhinged. And joyful and hopeful and a host of other brilliant sparkling, swirling things.

When the last of the laughter finally died down, Draco looked at Harry intently, grey eyes smoldering. An answering fire leapt through Harry's veins.

"I am not in a relationship, but I would like to be," Draco said lowly, taking Harry's hand in his and rubbing his thumb over Harry's knuckles, making the skin beneath tingle and burn. "Nor am I so straight that it will pose an obstacle for us." Harry let out a puff of air that wasn't really a response of any merit. His heart thundered in his chest. "Arguments could be made for and against my emotional fitness, but I think I'm doing rather well, all things considered." Harry smiled tremulously. "And," Draco leaned the rest of the way across the sofa to whisper in his ear, "I am not expected home tonight."

Sweet Merciful Merlin.

Harry felt faint (due in no small part to the sudden departure of blood from his head). "You really want this?" he breathed, both fearing and coveting Draco's answer.

Draco met his eyes to say, "I really do."

Harry could have cried. Instead, he grabbed the front of Draco's robes and hauled him in for a punishing kiss.


	11. Chapter 11

Draco felt lightheaded, his lips swollen and bruised. Harry allowed him but a moment's respite before diving back in for another (lip-crushing, spine-tingling, soul-searing) attack.

Salazar. The man did not kiss like Astoria. Not that Draco had expected him to, but he was woefully unprepared for Harry's ferocity or possessiveness.

Astoria had been passive during lovemaking--soft and dignified. Not passionless, no. But neither could she fairly be called passionate. Theirs was not a passionate marriage, in truth, but that was all right. It was loving. Trusting. Companionable and warm. So much more than Draco had expected...or thought he deserved. But Astoria had challenged that--and challenged _him_ \--in her quiet, gentle way.

As she'd grown in respect, then affection, and eventually love for the man who had been little better than an acquaintance when they were wed, she convinced Draco that he was worthy of those sentiments. The last had been the hardest for him to accept. But Astoria was intelligent. She was beautiful and poised. An excellent appraiser of the inherent worth of person and object alike. If such a woman thought him lovable, there must be something to the notion.

Draco had married because he was a Malfoy. Because generations of expectations and honor demanded it. And he had married a lovely, pure-blooded near-stranger because that was the way things were done. He had never thought--never dared to hope--he would be so fortunate as to love her and be loved by her in return. And when he'd lost her, he'd been devastated. He thought her death might be the proverbial last straw of his demise after everything he had been through.

But of all the gifts she'd given him, the greatest was their son. And for him, Draco had no choice but to soldier on; though he did it for Astoria, as well. She had made him promise, after all, that he would do so if the worst ever befell her.

Maybe she had _the_ _sight_ \--she had always been somewhat preoccupied by the morbid and macabre. If she did know that Draco's life would lead him here, a warning would have been nice. Draco resolved to have words with her in the afterlife (if there was such a thing). And then he resolved to pay better attention to Harry because the opportunistic scoundrel had wasted no time in divesting him of his robes while he was lost in thought.

Harry swiftly pulled Draco's undershirt from the waistband of his trousers and snaked his scorching hands inside as he kissed a blazing trail across Draco's jaw and down his throat.

When he sunk his teeth into the juncture of Draco's neck and shoulder, Draco's eyes rolled into the back of his head and a deep, agonized groan flowed up from somewhere around the soles of his feet, the toes of which curled helplessly in his oxfords.

Draco could do little but cling to him as Harry stroked him into pliant incoherence. But when he went for the buttons of his shirt, Draco mustered the mental wherewithal to stop his hands.

"Before you do that," he rasped, indicating the garment, "there is something you need know."

A ripple of anxiety washed over the unvarnished desire in Harry's expression. "Okay," he replied, low and slightly hoarse. He rocked back on the cushion to give Draco space.

Draco did not mince his words. "I have a scar," he disclosed matter-of-factly (allowing Harry to fill in the blanks on why this particular scar was noteworthy). "It is faint, but visible. I made my peace with it a long time ago so I don't want you going all Gryffindor guilt-ridden and ruining the mood. Understand?"

A series of emotions chased each other across Harry's guileless face. Confusion. Understanding. Remorse. And then, most important, the return of the fiercely burning passion in the depths of his eyes (so much more open--and somehow  _greener_ \--without the barrier of lenses between them).

This was a fire Draco would willingly let consume him. He had no interest in escape. He dedicated himself to stoking the flames when Harry fell on him again. And when Harry licked a white-hot stripe up the length of the _sectumsempra_ scar, Draco threw back his head and moaned with abandon.

\------

Later-- _much_ later--as sweat cooled on their bodies and their breathing returned to normal, Harry began to fret. When even the delicious ridges of Draco's abdomen (which Harry traced again and again with his fingertips, trying to memorize every dip and edge and curve) could distract him no longer, he gave voice to the most pressing of his concerns. 

"Do you really think we can make this work?" he asked uncertainly. 

He didn't say, 'As a family,' though he was thinking it. It was what he wanted, surely, but he had enough sense to know that it wasn't the sort if thing you were supposed to say after falling into bed with someone for the first time.

Draco propped himself up on his elbows to look Harry in the eye. "I think we already have," he answered resolutely, voice a gravelly rumble that Harry felt as well as heard, and his heart swelled in response. 

"However," Draco continued (Harry's stomach lurched at the word), "I have a few non-negotiable terms."

Harry sat up to listen closely, deliberately linking his fingers in his lap to keep from anxious fidgeting. 

When Draco seemed sure he had Harry's undivided attention, he began. "First, if you lie to me again like you did last night, I won't be nearly as forgiving. I know hexes that make Girl Weasley's bat bogeys feel like the tickling jinx in comparison."

Although he'd said it jokingly, his silver eyes were hard--Harry didn't doubt the threat (or the anger behind it, which had only been hinted at before). 

"I'm _really_ sorry, Draco. I was a right arse and I feel terrible about it."

"You were and you should," Draco replied sharply. "So don't let it happen again."

Harry nodded solemnly.

"Moving on: I demand fidelity. No exceptions. No excuses." Draco pointed with his index finger to underscore his 'no's.'

 _That was a gimme,_ Harry mused. Fidelity was a requirement for him, as well. It was a relief to know that he and Draco were on the same page.

"You've got it," he answered easily. 

Draco inclined his head to acknowledge Harry's response, then continued, "I want more of your time and it will be up to you to make that work with the absurd schedule you keep. I'm not so spoilt as to demand all of your off hours, but I want a good deal more than what Scorpius and I are currently allotted." 

That would be a bit of a challenge, but Harry felt up to the task of meeting it. After all, he wanted it, too; it would just be easier if there were more hours in the week. Regardless, he nodded for Draco to go on.

"I have one condition left for now, but I reserve the right to add more at any time." _Once a Slytherin prince, always a Slytherin prince_ , Harry thought with fond exasperation. Draco leaned toward him, impelling with his body language as well as his tone. "You must allow me to handle the press when it comes to last night's debacle and any future articles that may concern us."

Harry snorted. Whatever Draco had in mind was guaranteed to be 100% more effective than anything he might do, which made it less of a _condition_ and more of a _perk_.

"I accept your terms," he said, smiling broadly. "They are fair and generous. Which is not something I ever would have expected to apply to you." He kicked Draco's foot playfully to let him know he was teasing. 

"What about the fact I just let you bugger me?" Draco scoffed, folding his arms across his chest.

"Hah! Well..." Harry plopped back onto the mattress and dragged Draco down with him. "I may or may not have entertained a few fantasies of that nature back in school," he admitted. "It seemed slightly more plausible."

Draco pinched him. "Just for that, I'm topping next time."

That was quite all right with Harry. "Why wait?" he goaded cheekily. 

Draco did not hesitate to pounce.

Harry felt like the luckiest man in the world. 


	12. Chapter 12

Epilogue: 13 years later

Scorpius had been sullen and withdrawn ever since Harry met him at Platform 9 3/4 that morning for the start of winter hols. Granted, his son was officially a teenager now so it was to be expected, but he sensed there may be more to it than that. Their entire lunch had passed in near-silence in the echoey expanse of Grimmauld's kitchen, with Scorpius giving one-word answers to Harry's inquiries about the term and how Scorpius's cousins were getting on.

Harry cautiously broached the subject. "You seem kind of down, Scorp. Is something bothering you?"

"I'm fine."

"Scorp..."

"I said I'm fine!" Scorpius snapped, face so much like his father's that Harry was transported back to Hogwarts for a disorienting instant.

He held up placating hands. "Okay. As long as you know I'll listen if you're ever _not_ fine. Or if you want to talk just because."

Scorpius sniffed and took shelter behind a fall of platinum hair. Harry let him be and returned to his ploughman's, trusting him to come around eventually. 

After a minute, Scorpius began scratching the nail of his index finger against a gouge in the old table's surface. After another had passed, he mumbled, "It's Wendy." Harry listened intently. "She…she broke up with me," Scorpius sobbed suddenly, eyes screwing shut in despair. 

Harry abandoned his lunch to take up Scorpius's hand.

"Oh, son," he consoled. "I'm so sorry. I know how much that hurts."

Scorpius and Wendy had only started dating in November. He mused that young love was as fickle as it was intense. Then Scorpius gave a pathetic snuffling noise and Harry's chest ached for his boy.

"When will it stop hurting?" Scorpius whimpered, dropping his head to the table and hiding his face in the crook of his arm.

"Mostly that depends on you," Harry replied gently. "Everyone hurts differently. And some kinds of pain take longer than others."

"And some don't ever go away."

Scorpius sounded as though he thought his misery would last until the sun ceased shining and the earth stood still. Harry remembered being that age--the overwhelming emotions, the irrationality, the hormones, the anxiety and insecurities. (And, in his case, the constant threat of death).

He didn't miss it.

"That's true," he affirmed pragmatically. "Some never fade completely, though they do get better in time." Harry paused to consider his words and test their veracity against his own experiences. Satisfied that they held up, he stroked Scorpius's silky hair with his free hand and said, "The hurts that stay with us leave something like a scar on our hearts. But that isn't necessarily a bad thing."

Scorpius peeked up at Harry's forehead. "Because scars tell stories?" he guessed. It was something they had talked about before because Harry and Draco both had such notable ones. (Their scars drew stares in a crowd even now).

Harry nodded. "Exactly. And although the stories they tell are usually painful, they are proof that you are stronger than the pain because you keep going in spite of it."

Scorpius rolled his head to the side so that it was pillowed on his arm and he could look at Harry (albeit sideways). His silver eyes were red-ringed.

"There's often good to be found in the story, as well," Harry smiled softly. "Like your grandmum's love for me or your Uncle Bill's bravery or how fortunate I am that your father gave the idiot who hurt him that badly a chance."

Scorpius crinkled his nose. He was of an age to no longer appreciate any references--however oblique--to his parents' romance.

He was quiet for long moments after that. Harry would let him have all the time he needed. "How long did it take for Papa to be ok again after my mother died?" he asked eventually.

Harry thought about it. "In one sense, he had to be ok right away so he could take care of you. But he misses her still and he's sad sometimes when he thinks about her." Harry felt an echo of old grief. "That's also true for me."

Scorpius looked pensive. Harry lightly squeezed his hand three times--their secret code for love and reassurance. 

"I'm afraid that if you want a better answer," he said, "you'll have to ask him yourself when he gets back from the Manor tonight." Draco had missed their son's homecoming for the only other person he cared about as much as them--Narcissa had fallen off a stepladder into one of her precious rose bushes that very morning and he was seeing to her comfort until he trusted the house-elves to take over. Harry expected him home in time for dinner.

Scorpius chewed his lip while he thought (a bad habit he picked up from Harry that Draco was always after both of them about). "I will," he announced decisively, sitting up, wiping his eyes, and drawing his hand away from Harry, suddenly much too grown up to be crying on the kitchen table or holding hands with his dad.

Harry stifled a grin. "Good," he said seriously. "He loves getting to talk with you, you know."

Scorpius rolled his eyes. "I know, dad," he moaned as though Harry was impossibly trying, but there was a smile at the corners of his mouth.

Harry stood up from the table to clear their dishes. "I love you, Scorpius," he said, dropping a kiss to the top of his head as he passed.

"I love you, too," Scorpius replied unselfconsciously. "And thanks."

Harry beamed as he placed the dishes in the sink, filling it with soapy water for washing. 

His heart, scarred though it may be, was glad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a grander vision for this fic, but it didn't come together quite as I had planned. There are a lot of gaps for you, the reader, to fill in, but I hope that you've enjoyed this little story of love and healing anyway. I so appreciated the wonderful constructive feedback I received from many of you along the way. You help me to be a better author and are a great encouragement besides <3 
> 
> Peace and love,  
> Playout


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